Angst, Love, And Other Useless Things
by DarlingDeathMachine
Summary: AU. Sting gets sent to Paris to pull himself out of a rut, and after a week of misery, he's ready to throw in the towel. It'd take a miracle to turn his trip around, and miracles don't just crash into you when you turn a corner... Do they? Rated T for some language.
1. Uneasy Arrivals

_**A/N: Hello, hello. How do you all do? First, I'd like to explain that this story was inspired by a picture I found on tumblr where Sting was striking a triumphant pose with the Eiffel Tower in the background. And while slightly poking fun at it with a fellow Fairy, it gave me this idea.  
Secondly, I'd like to apologize for how potentially awful this is-and will-be. It's been about a year since I've written anything, and I'm terribly out of practice. But I hope some will enjoy it.**_

_**Dedication: To Anny, because you're the one who'll keep me writing this.**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Fairy Tail, its affiliated characters, or the edited picture from which I drew my inspiration.**_

* * *

_Universe: Alternate, Modern Day_

_Setting: Plane interior/ Paris, France_

_Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Human!Weisslogia, Rogue Cheney, (Secret Character)_

* * *

"Sir? Please wake up, sir, you must fasten your seatbelt, we are beginning our descent."  
A young man felt several light taps on his shoulder that roused him from his slumber.  
"Muun?" He groaned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes into the back of his hand.  
"Your seatbelt, sir." The stewardess repeated with a hint of impatience.  
"Yeah... Yeah, I got it." He waved dismissively at her as he yawned. The belt was buckled across his lap, and as he became fully aware of his surroundings, he assumed an introverted pose.

Sting Eucliffe hated flying. He _hated_ it. Any sort of transportation made him huddle up in sickness. He could feel the altitude drop in the pit of his stomach, causing him to lurch forward and press his hand to his mouth. The man in the suit next to him leaned far towards the window, cautiously watching the teen try to suppress his urge to vomit.  
When he couldn't bear to hold it in any longer, Sting frantically unbuckled himself and wobbled down the aisle, despite the stewardess' plea for him to retake his seat, and locked himself in the washroom, where he remained for the rest of the flight.

* * *

**-x-**

"Stanford Eucliffe, is it?" The customs officer asked as he inspected the traveler's passport for approval.  
Sting visibly cringed upon hearing that name, _his_ name.  
"Yes..."  
"And what brings you to Paris?"  
"Just vacationing... Sightseeing, that type of stuff." He scratched his head, ruffling his haphazard, blonde quaff, giving the slightest of shrugs.  
His father had sent him here, concerned he was in a rut, on some 'soul searching journey to find himself', or some shit. To be honest, he wasn't exactly paying attention. Because Sting was ultimately reluctant to go for such a nonsense reason. So what if he was in a rut? What would he find for himself here? And if he had to come, why couldn't Rogue, or at least his cat, Lecter, come with him?  
But he couldn't say no... Not to his pops anyway, so here he was.  
"'That type of stuff', hm?" The officer mocked in his Parisian accent before he handed Sting the stamped document. "Enjoy your stay, Monsieur Eucliffe."  
With luggage in tow, Sting clumsily maneuvered through the airport, still feeling somewhat queasy, but more hungry than anything now that his stomach was completely empty. But before he could do anything, he'd have to endure a taxi ride to the hotel to unpack and be free of his suitcase...  
"Damned transportation."

* * *

**-x-**

Nope.  
He couldn't move. He _wouldn't_ move.  
After his check-in, Sting collapsed onto his bed and utterly refused to budge. The ride to the airport, the flight, that thankfully was straight through with no connectings, and then the ride to the hotel...  
It was more than Sting was able to handle. No matter how hungry he was, or how much he needed to unpack, he wouldn't move. Not for anything...  
The room's phone rang, to the blonde's chagrin. He lazily inched his way across the mattress to the stand where he was able to answer it by the third ring.  
"Hello? Oh, er, _bonjour_?" The French greeting coming from his mouth was sour and unnatural.  
"Ah, you've settled in I take it?" The voice on the other end was none other than his father's, Weiss Eucliffe.  
"Oh, hey, pops! I really only just arrived, haven't done much to speak of." Sting still had him arm braced to his sore, grumbling stomach.  
"How did the transports treat you?"  
"Slept most of the flight, but my stomach is killing me. I'm starving, but I don't want to chance it."  
Sting let out a sudden, small sigh. Hearing his father's voice made him feel somewhat lonely. He was here on his own after all, and even if he was a little bitter about it, the immediate homesickness trumped any residual motion sickness in a big way.  
"Sting, if you haven't eaten, please do so this instant. It's one thing to complain here, where I have the ability to take care of it, but you are relying on yourself out there. Take care of yourself, or this will be for nothing. Do I make myself clear?"  
"Yes, sir." Sting mumbled into the receiver.  
On second thought, maybe he wouldn't miss the rules, the scolding, the curfew-that he didn't abide by anyway, but not having anyone there to breathe down his neck about it made it especially wonderful.  
"Good. Now do try to enjoy yourself out there, yes? I'll be in touch through e-mail from now on, please try to check regularly so I know you're alive and well."  
"Alright, pops. I'll hear from you later. Take it easy."  
"Au revoir, Sting."  
After hanging up, Sting was sprawled on the bed once more. He stared intensely at his luggage that sat near the door, switching his gaze shortly after to the window, then the clock.  
He'd be here for a while, and it was only mid-day.  
Paris wouldn't miss him if he snuck in a little nap.


	2. Settling In

Day one in Paris officially began when Sting snored so violently, he succeeded in waking himself.

It was early evening, the sky began to turn with warm hues, but the only thing Sting was concentrated on was pain.  
Hunger pain, that is.  
He rolled off the bed, completely entwined in the sheets. Once separated from the linens, he loomed over the telephone on the bedside table, squinting at a laminated call directory chart that served as a mat underneath it. Room service, room service, there must be room service... Ah, there it was.  
The starved blonde picked up the phone and dialed; after the first ring, he received an earful of French that he was too groggy to even attempt processing for translation.  
"Uh, hi, bonsoir. I really need to place an order."  
"Oui, oui, monsieur! And what can I get for you, hm?"  
Sting balked. He hadn't exactly thought about _what_ he'd like to eat. What the hell do the French eat? _Croissant_, _baguette_... But those were just breads, and wouldn't fill him up. _Omelette du fromage_... Cheese omelette, but Sting hated eggs.  
_Escargot_... Fucking gross, no way he was putting that in his mouth.  
"Monsieur? Are you still on ze line?"  
"Yeah, yeah I am... Say, do you have burgers?" He questioned, feeling a craving for something greasy and well-known to his taste buds.  
"Ze hamburgers? Oui, monsieur, we can prepare zis for you."  
Sting almost wanted to snicker, the man's accent was so incredibly corny that it seemed almost fake.  
"Thanks, oh, merci. Could you add in extra cheese and pickles? And mustard. Oh, and bring three of them."  
"T-trois, monsieur?"  
"Yes, _trois_."  
"As you wish. Ze order will be placed and will be arriving in say, twenty minutes."  
"Thank you kindly."  
The thought of food made Sting excited. He had time to kill, so he hoisted one of his suitcases onto the bed, unzipped, and dug into it for clean clothes-at some point in the middle of ordering his dinner, he had realized that he smelt like a puke filled gym sock. Tossing his clean clothes in the washroom, and stripping on the spot, he grabbed his soaps and headed for the shower.

* * *

**-x-**

Emerging through a sea of steam, Sting mussed up his dampened hair with a towel before using it to dry off the rest of his body. He was totally refreshed, clean, and offensive odour free.  
He slipped on his boxers, and scooped up the rest of his clean clothes and set them on the bed, while leaving the wet towel in the doorway to the bathroom. Crossing the room, he pulled open a drawer on the provided wardrobe and grabbed shirts, pants, whatever and stuffed them in without care until everything was unpacked.  
His father would have a fit if he saw this; the man had a severe distaste for wrinkled clothing.  
When a knock came to the door, the blonde had tripped over his own feet, struggling to at least be clothed in jeans before he answered.  
"Your order, monsieur." A well-dressed waiter rolled in a cart, perched upon which was a silver platter.  
Sting was quick to pay and tip the man, sending him on his was so he could dig in because the aroma was killing him. The platter lid was tossed to the floor, and one of the burgers was immediately crammed into his mouth. He wasn't sure if it was the cook's skill, or his own starvation that caused it to feel this way, but it was probably the most euphoric thing he's eaten to date.

He rolled the cart over by the window, reeled it open, and balanced himself on the ledge.  
Sting stared out in the city. How long had it been since he was here last?  
He was only there once before, when he was maybe seven or eight. His father had brought him on a business trip, so he never got to explore the city like he wanted. Though he doubted he'd ever remember it, so maybe it was better that way.  
His dad prepared a pocket guide for him. Major points of interest, metro maps, acclaimed restaurants and bistros, entertainment, everything he thought his son should see on his trip. He even noted areas and time slots that were better off being avoided.  
Everything was there for him, even in his parent's absence.  
Sting was pretty thankful for it all, even though he still firmly believed he had no reason to be there.

The sky was getting darker and darker, and the breeze turned cool, causing the shirtless blonde to hop off the window's ledge and close it.  
With his food completely devoured, the cart was wheeled out into the hall. When Sting looked back to the window, something caught his eye. Off in the distance, the Eiffel Tower, the staple of Paris, began to light up and sparkle, showing off a brilliant light show. Sting was mesmerized by these flashing white lights that danced so brightly against the contrast of the early night sky.  
It seemed that it ended as soon as it started, snapping Sting out of his trance.  
He smirked to himself, hoping that next time he saw such a spectacle, that he caught it up close.

* * *

**-x-**

He was bored.  
He felt dumb for taking a nap when he did, but he was honestly tired then, despite sleeping on the plane. And now, as it was nearing midnight, he didn't feel tired one bit as he watched a weird, French dubbed version of the movie "The Eye" while hanging halfway upside down off the foot of the mattress... And that's when Sting received a second phone call.  
The sudden ring made him jerk, his body no longer balanced as gravity pulled him abruptly to the floor. He crawled over to the phone and ripped the receiver off of the cradle.  
"Hel~_lo_?" He growled.  
"Sting?"  
"Rogue?"  
"Your father gave me the number to your hotel."  
"Well alright, buddy! How goes it?" Sting was happy to hear from his best friend, it made him instantly forget falling off the bed.  
"Nothing's changed, you've only been gone a day. Your dad also dropped off Lecter."  
Weiss Eucliffe was a busy man, so it was decided and accepted that Rogue would take care of Sting's cat during the trip.  
"Oh yeah? How's my little man? Is he getting along with Frosch?"  
"They're as thick as thieves." Rogue noted.  
"They take after us. So what's up? Is that what you wanted to tell me?"  
"More or less. I know you well enough by now to know that Lecter's well-being is of utmost importance."  
"Of course. I wouldn't trust anyone else with him. Yukino made him fat last time I left him with her, Rufus is allergic, and Orga... I just don't know about him."  
"Understandable. I don't care for how he eyes Frosch when he's over."  
Sting chuckled; if only his friend's could be there with him. He'd have to take pictures and come back with tons of gifts and wild stories just for them.  
"Anything you want from here? I doubt I'll be buying anything but food and train passes."  
"I'm not a finicky person, a keychain will suffice."  
"Naw, bro. You're gonna get something cool, I'll find you something you're gonna love." Sting promised. Everyone else had asked for something except Rogue, he'd feel like the biggest dirtbag if he didn't bring back something amazing for him.  
"If you say so... Don't stay up too late. I know you'll be jet-lagged, but trying to adjust now will help you out in the long run."  
"Aye, aye, Captain. I'll hear from you later, then?"  
"Sure thing. Take care of yourself."  
"See ya, Rogue."

He hung up, smirking to himself. He hoped to hear from the rest of his group during his stay.  
He stretched, grabbed the remote and turned off the television. Even though he wasn't sleepy, he'd force himself to sleep. Jet lag was shit, and he didn't want to be yawning, exhausted, and totally run down in the middle of the day.  
Settled under the covers, Sting gave one last look out the window.

Tomorrow he'd take to the city, and see what was in store for him.

* * *

**A/N: I don't know about anyone else, but after an international flight, all I want to do eat, shower, and sleep.  
I'll admit right now, some of what Sting will do in Paris is based on my own experiences in the city-and I'll be honest, I didn't really enjoy my time there. Maybe next time I will.  
Well, this may have been a little something and nothing, but I promise he'll do something in the next chapter.  
Thanks for reading!  
**


End file.
